Draco Malfoy and his Unknown Fate:
Author's Notes: Heh. I have a feeling you'll like this chapter. *giggles*
Warnings for this chapter: Hmm… Draco's a bit prejudiced about werewolves, but not so much as before really. Go, read. Hurry!
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm merely borrowing them for the time being. This will be slash (eventually). Don't like it? Don't read it. Otherwise, enjoy.
Draco shed his robes and slipped into his bed, yawning so widely his jaw almost cracked. He wriggled around, kicking off his shoes, socks, and trousers before shrugging out of his shirt and pushing his clothes to the floor. The clothes felt confining and he didn't even want to consider getting up and walking the four feet it took to reach his pajamas. It wasn't the first time he'd slept in the nude and he knew the house elves would keep the room warm enough for him. He was so tired his vision was blurring.
He'd been up late with Snape to help the Potions Master with the Wolfsbane potion, presumably for Professor Lupin as part of his lab assistant duties. Draco didn't like the idea of a werewolf teaching at Hogwarts, but Lupin was certainly a sight better than a servant and host of the Dark Lord, a narcissistic fraud, a Death Eater, or a paranoid ex-Auror with an intense distrust of all things even remotely Slytherin. He'd had his full of being transfigured into rodents, though in all fairness that had been Barty Crouch Jr., but he couldn't help thinking of Moody whenever the incident came to mind. Though the real Moody hadn't been much better considering the fact he had followed Draco about, watching him with that creepy ass eye of his as if the Slytherin was going to commit a crime any second. Even a werewolf was better than that.
And if the potion could keep the Defense Against Dark Arts professor from becoming a slavering beast willing to rip his students to pieces Draco was going to damn well concentrate on the making the potion absolutely bloody perfect. It took a great deal of magical energy, concentration, careful timing, and skill; Draco was impressed that Snape had managed to brew it by himself before this. It was a far easier to brew with two people and even then the potion was a particularly difficult one.
Draco stretched like a cat on his bed, arching his back and extending his limbs before curling up under the blankets. He fell asleep immediately, too exhausted to hear the scrape of stones as the entrance to his room was opened or the quiet, furtive footsteps that followed fifteen minutes after his head had hit the pillow.
He was teased into consciousness much earlier than his previous late night warranted by the sunlight playing across his closed eyelids. Draco's eyelashes fluttered and opened to let him squint into the brightness. He was warm and very comfortable and fairly upset that the sun had cut into his badly needed rest. He rolled over, throwing his arm around his bedmate before burrowing against the other for warmth and shutting his eyes again.
They popped back open a second later. Bedmate? He jerked back and realized immediately that he wasn't in his own bed and that in fact the occupant of this particular bed was actually still in it. It took a massive amount of effort to bite back the girly scream that rose in his throat. Holy fucking horned toads, he cursed silently, struck dumb. Then curiosity got the best of him and he leaned forward to get a better look at the other person.
It was Potter and Draco didn't know whether the jolt he felt upon seeing the other boy was surprise or ironic acknowledgment. Of course it was Potter, the bane of his existence, who else could it possibly be? His face was more vulnerable in sleep, his face bare of the usual bulky (and in Draco's opinion horrid looking) glasses to reveal a bone structure that was at once strong and refined. Draco's own aristocratic features were much too delicate in his opinion, his chin too pointed, his cheekbones too high, his skin too soft to ever be called handsome. 'Pretty' was one irritating term he'd heard before, along with the more flattering 'striking' and the ego-boosting 'gorgeous' a few had used to describe him on occasion. He'd always thought Potter was terribly common and plain for a hero, but on a closer inspection - a far closer inspection than he'd ever thought he'd get a chance to make - he was actually handsome.
Draco had never thought to attribute that particular description to Potter. Annoying, thick headed, sanctimonious, frustrating, infuriatingly lucky, skilled on a broom and even commendably determined at a pinch, but certainly not handsome. But he was. With a strong jaw, straight nose, lips that looked very soft and were pleasingly full, but not overly so, tan golden skin, glossy black hair that refused to be tamed, long sooty eyelashes, and a typical Seeker physique Potter was definitely worth a second glance. Or perhaps even a long stare. Much like the one Draco was giving him now, but he really couldn't help it. Potter was tangled in the bed sheets, his simple cotton pajama top gaping open at the throat to reveal a lovely expanse of golden skin and even one perfect, flat, copper nipple. Draco leaned forward, the warm, musky scent of sleeping male enticing him. He was mere inches away when reality crashed through the dream-like state he'd been in and he jerked back quickly, his breath rapid with shock, adrenaline, and utter alarm.
What was he doing?! Had he completely lost his mind?
He scrambled away from Potter who mumbled something and shifted, moving his arm (lean and muscular, not to mention tan enough to make a pleasing contrast against the white linens and Circe's tits he had to stop this!) a bit before he drifted back into sleep. Draco looked around wildly, thanking all the deities he could remember even if he didn't believe in their existence that Potter had his own room and that the git had stayed asleep the whole time. He crept out of the bed and slid through the gap in the heavy crimson velvet curtains that had let in the sunlight that woke him earlier, panic still gripping him. He had woken up stark naked in Harry Potter's bed of all places with no memory of how he'd gotten there. He was not a jolly June bug, as the saying went.
He was going to wring the neck of whoever did this to him just as soon as he managed to get out of this situation, preferably without the public humiliation that seemed ever more likely as the seconds ticked by. The Slytherin quietly slinked over to a likely looking dresser and managed to rustle up an approximation of clothing. Only an approximation mind you, considering they swallowed his lithe, slender frame whole and were absolutely hideous. Resolving to burn them at the first opportunity, Draco made his way out of the bedroom.
Potter's sitting room was similar in Draco's to appearance, though it was decorated in the Gyffindor colors with small accents of bronze. The furniture was made of fine cherry wood while Draco's was of a dark walnut, but it suited the room. Potter's quarters were larger of course, because Draco could never manage to best the Gryffindor Golden Boy, not even in such a petty thing. Or at least, not while Potter so obviously had Dumbledore's favor and the adoration of the entire bloody wizarding world. He took a moment to dig through the other boy's desk, aware of what a rare opportunity this was, but found nothing even remotely interesting. He heard a rustle from the bedroom and jumped, disappointed he couldn't snoop more, but eager to leave before his presence was discovered.
He crept out of the room, surprised to note it was guarded by a portrait. Everyone knew portraits were highly unreliable entrances when the subject of the portrait could wander off at any time to leave people stranded outside. The painted hedge knight was sleeping against an apple tree, his horse grazing in the background and his dented shield propped up nearby, displaying a vaguely familiar crest that Draco couldn't quite place.
Glad his escape from Potter's room wouldn't make it through the portrait grapevine, he set off down a random corridor in the hopes he would eventually come across some familiar land mark. He did manage to make his way down into the dungeons, all the while wondering who had the ability and nerve to not only abduct him from his room, but gain the password to Potter's. It was a troubling enigma, but it was solved as soon as saw the flash of sly amusement on Pansy's face before she schooled it to shock and curiosity at his sudden appearance. He ignored her carefully worded question, stalking angrily towards his room as he scowled darkly, only pausing to push up the too long sleeves of the borrowed shirt.
Draco immediately started planning his revenge, wondering in some tiny little corner of his brain if Potter would notice his rival's scent or the lingering warmth permeating his bed linens when he woke.
To be Continued
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